


Return To Me

by stubblesandwich



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Captain Hook - Freeform, Captain Swan - Freeform, F/M, emma swan - Freeform, killian jones - Freeform, millian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2018-11-12 07:32:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11157183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stubblesandwich/pseuds/stubblesandwich
Summary: Emma Swan is dying. Her last remaining hope is a heart-transplant, and those aren't easy to come by. But, as luck would have it, fate finds her worthy, and on a stormy autumn night, Emma is given a second chance at life.Meanwhile, on the other side of the Boston hospital, Killian Jones has been devastated by the sudden loss of his wife.Inspired by the 2000 film of the same title with Minnie Driver and David Duchovny.





	1. What a Difference a Day Makes

**Author's Note:**

> I am indebted to tumblr users welllpthisishappening and bleebug for looking this over for me and being all-around awesome soundboards. Both handled all my gushing feelings extremely well, and for that I am forever grateful. Thanks for clicking on this! More comments at the end.

“Care to dance, captain?” 

Killian had been staring at his wife, not bothering to hide the adoring expression on his face. She'd noticed. For her part, Milah found it sweet. His eyes crinkled when he smiled, crow's feet well-earned throughout the seven years they had been together, and nothing made her heart leap quite like the smile that reached all the way to her husband's eyes. 

He rose, gave a slight bow, and extended a hand to her. “It would be my honor, m'lady,” he said, and she laughed, shaking her head at his theatrics. She took his hand, letting him lead her to the dance floor, where a dozen couples were already swaying serenely along to an old, sweet love song. 

The Boston marina had been decorated exquisitely, hardly an expense spared, for the gala that evening. Museum heads, entrepreneurs and business executives alike had all been invited to the black-tie event, whether they had donated in the past or potentially would in the future, in hopes of raising both funds and awareness for the ship restoration program Killian manned. It was his passion, and this gala was the highlight of his year, as far as his career was concerned. 

His eyes flit around the room, trying to make out the faces scattered throughout the immense ballroom to see if he recognized anyone. The turnout was phenomenal. This was fortunate for him, as most of the funding for the grandiose event had come out of Killian and Milah's own pockets. But, by the looks of things, it had been well worth it. 

 

The marina, as expected, held a pristine view of the harbor and sea. The wall facing the ocean was nearly all window, from floor to ceiling, and as night had fallen, the effect was absolutely mesmerizing. A lighthouse in the distance flashed, and the moon cast its white light over the water, the dark waves nearly as beautiful as the stars looming over it.

Most of the lights had dimmed after dinner, once the dancing began. Only the grand, ornate hanging chandeliers spread throughout the ballroom were lit now, casting a warm glow over the guests as the dance floor began to fill. 

 

Milah was a sucker for this sort of music, those crooning, golden voices that seemed to capture an entire era and take their listeners back to a simpler time. It made her melt, and Killian was fully aware of this. The song playing faded into one they both knew well, and Milah couldn't help the happy little sigh that escaped her as Killian began to sing along softly for only her to hear. 

 

She wrapped her arms over his shoulders, hands coming to rest at the back of his neck. Her fingers immediately found the hair that flipped out just a touch over his collar and began to toy with it gently.

“Have I ever told you how much I love you?” he asked.

Milah feigned thoughtfulness for a moment. “You know, I don't think you have. Not in a few hours, at least.” 

 

A devilish look came onto his face. “Allow me to show you.” He leaned in slowly, sweetly, and took her mouth in a kiss. The world around them melted away, fading into soft light and a slow song.

 

Usually, she wore her hair down, letting it do whatever the thick, unruly curls were going to do that day, and he loved it. He loved the wildness of her hair, found it to be just a small glimpse into her spirit. It had been one of the first things he'd been drawn to when he'd met her. Next, her eyes. He was lost in them then, as they swayed across the dance floor. The twinkling white lights around the room made her blue eyes shine brilliantly, even with the main lights dimmed. 

 

On this night, she had gone all out, especially with her usually untamable hair. The curls he loved were twisted and tucked delicately into an elegant up-do, similar to the style she had worn for their wedding day. Of course, managing this feat hadn't come without its qualms. After several frustrating attempts to figure out a style for herself in the days leading up to Killian's fundraiser, she had eventually given up and made an appointment with her hairdresser the day of the event. It was, in Killian's opinion, well worth it. She looked stunning.

A tea-length navy dress—one of his favorites—hugged her shape, accentuating all the right curves, and he couldn't seem to keep his hands to himself. Not that she minded. She certainly understood the sentiment, as her eyes had hardly strayed from him all night, glued to he tailored, blue-black suit he'd worn just for her. 

“If you're trying to get laid tonight,” she'd said cheekily that afternoon, as they were both getting ready, “You're off to a great start.” He'd waggled his eyebrows at that and kissed the lipstick right off her mouth, despite her laughing protests. 

They were, undoubtedly, the most beautiful couple in the room, made only more alluring by the way they danced, and how they looked at each other. 

Eventually, the man of the hour was called to the microphone. With a swift kiss to his wife's cheek, Killian left her and made his way to the front of the room, where one of his event organizers was standing with a microphone. “Thanks, mate,” he told him, clapping him on the shoulder before he took the mic in hand. The lights had been raised, and he took a moment to find Milah in the large crowd. Once he did, he shot her a wink. 

 

Killian cleared his throat, testing the volume of the microphone. “Thank you all for coming tonight,” he began. “None of this would have been possible without my event coordinators, who secured this marina for us. I think we can all agree it's absolutely lovely.” There were murmurs and a few claps of agreement. 

 

He didn't have much more to add. The affair was extravagant, but its purpose was fairly simple. Donors who had given money to the ship restoration company in the past were profusely thanked and honored, potential donors were further wooed. Killian promised them all they would be able to see the fruits of their donations first hand, as some of the organization's more prestigious restoration projects—a gorgeous antique yacht, an old sailing ship circa 1800, and a small historical battle ship halfway through its restoration process—would be docked outside in the front of the marina within the next hour. This drew a few whoops of excitement and a raucous round of clapping. Killian beamed and found Milah's smiling face in the crowd again. 

 

“I wouldn't be standing here today,” Killian went on as the applause began to die down, “Without the constant love and support of my beautiful wife, Milah. Darling, you are the wind in my sails.” Her smile grew, stretching so wide across her face it threatened to split it in half, and he wore one to match. 

When he returned to her, he took her hand in his, issued it a kiss, and they danced the rest of the night. 

+++

 

Emma lay nearly as still as death, face ashen, staring up at her hospital room's ceiling. It had been painted with that horrible “popcorn paint” that had been so popular in the 90s. Something about it made her smile. Her heart monitor sped up just a touch, its high pitched chirping picking up tempo. 

 

“What is it?” Mary Margaret asked, leaning in. She had been firmly planted by Emma's side since the moment she and David had brought her in a few days ago. She held her hand, stroking the back of Emma's with her thumb every now and then. Each brush of her fingers sent warmth spilling through Emma's terrible, useless heart. 

Emma's voice was hardly above a whisper when she spoke, raspy and rattling and weak. She hated it. “Remember...” she laughed, stopping to catch her breath. Mary Margaret smiled patiently. “... That time we—” A cough overtook her, and Mary Margaret squeezed her hand as she fought through it. “.. Tried to get that... stupid popcorn paint..” 

“Off my ceiling!” Mary Margaret finished for her, and Emma gave her a grateful, albeit weak, smile. “Yes! What a horrible weekend that was!” 

Emma chuckled as Mary Margaret sat back down in her chair, releasing her hand as she scooted it closer to Emma's bed. “Your worst idea,” Emma murmured, and Mary Margaret put her hands up in mock surrender. 

“All right,” she said, “I'll give you that. But how was I supposed to know the popcorn was only painted on to cover that terrible salmon color?” 

“Who paints their ceiling... pink?” Emma asked in a whisper. 

“Crazy people,” Mary Margaret said, leaning back in her chair. 

 

They settled into a comfortable silence. The sound of Emma's monitors were oddly soothing, a rhythmic symphony of chirps and beeps helping to keep her alive. She had been listening to them for so long, attuned to the sounds each individual machine made in a day, that it was hard to remember what normal life sounded like without them. 

It was a simple room, with outdated wallpaper and a sparse amount of pictures on the wall. The closest frame to Emma was an Anne Geddes original of a baby poking its head out of a giant tulip. The first time she had seen it, she'd found it creepy. Mary Margaret had loved it, naturally. After almost a week, it had grown on Emma, too. 

Everything had grown on her. The hospital staff, with their infinitely perky attitudes, had been insufferable in the beginning. The room was drab, but after a few days, she had softened to its old-fashioned charms. The hospital itself was apparently one of the top in the city of Boston for cardiac issues. Naturally, with a heart that was practically useless, it was where she wanted to be. Mary Margaret had suggested, quite rightly, that if the hospital was going to put their money anywhere, it should be in its doctors and technology, instead of updating its interior decorating. Emma agreed.

While she tried not to make complaining an unbecoming habit, internally it was a hard ritual to break. Life hadn't always been kind to Emma swan. Its knocks had turned her into something of a cynic. She had been born with a heart defect, a bleak prognosis looming over her life, a laughing villain threatening to come for her one day and take it all. 

Eventually, she was told, her heart would give out on her. She'd had frequent checkups in her life, most of which she had attended. Some foster parents were better than others about getting her to her necessary appointments. Others took the extra funding they were allotted for taking on a terminally ill child and kept it for themselves. 

She never found out what had happened to her birth parents, if they had given her up when they had found out about her condition, as so many would-be parents had done in the history of the human race, or if they had known from her conception they weren't going to keep her. Eventually, she stopped wondering. 

For all the horror stories she had accumulated throughout her time in the foster system, she had a few good stories to go along with them. If she hadn't liked a place, she ran. Her heart condition hadn't truly manifested itself until her teenage years, wherein running away from group homes was far less manageable. 

Life had picked up a bit, though, when she was sixteen, and had been introduced to Ruth Nolan. It was her last home in the foster care system, and for everything she had endured throughout her life, she at least ended her time in the system on a good note. 

With Ruth came David, her son. Ruth had been the mother of twins, David and his slightly older brother, James. Tragically, James had died as a baby, and the hole he left had never been filled in Ruth's heart. She doted on David, a sweet, hard-working boy who returned her affection ounce for ounce. When Mr. Nolan passed years later, Ruth opened her heart to foster care. She had a few children come and go, offering them a sanctuary in the only way she could, and Emma had been the last to come to her. 

David was only two years older than Emma, but he eagerly took on the role of her older brother. She spent two years with the Nolans, and they became the closest thing to family she had ever known. David went off to college, returning a few years later engaged to a woman he had met in one of his childhood development classes, Mary Margaret Blanchard. They were sickeningly sweet together. 

Emma had stayed in touch with both of them. But for all the support they had given her, she needed to go her own way. The pendulum swung, and with the good in her life inevitably followed the bad. She met a man she thought she loved, fell hard, and was let down. 

As it turned out, most young men weren't interested in a woman with a death sentence. 

Where Emma had begun to withdraw, David and his new wife, Mary Margaret, predictably sought her out all the more. They had both moved into Mary Margaret's apartment, a spacious loft just outside Boston she had been previously sharing with her college roommates, and promptly began begging Emma to come visit them. Eventually, they wore her down. When her heart condition began to worsen to the point where she could no longer hide it from them, they were there for her, fussing like a pair of mother hens. 

In time, she moved in with them. She was reluctant at first, but one night, as she was pouring herself her third glass of wine, Mary Margaret had let slip that she was terrified something would happen to Emma and they wouldn't find out about it until it was too late. Suddenly, their frequent check-in texts and daily calls weren't so vexing. 

+++

Eventually, her doctor sent them all home. 

The past week had proved a frightful scare. Emma's face, taut with constant, thrumming pain, pallid as a corpse, was enough cause for worry.  
But, most alarmingly, was what had happened while she had been on a ride-along with David earlier in the week. They had just swung through a drive-through for coffee, and as David turned to his foster sister to get her order, Emma had gone into convulsions. With a flick of a switch, his sirens were on. 

In the days she had spent under the hospital's care, they had made her comfortable. She would be sent home with a handful of new prescriptions she couldn't pronounce, some for the mounting pain, some for other things. There wasn't much else they could do; they told her as much. Most helpfully, her position on the heart transplant list had been moved to top priority. 

While her doctor framed this as a good thing, it did little to assuage Emma's unease. She had just skipped over multiple others on the list, and it felt like cutting in line. The idea of getting a new heart more quickly was terrifying, in itself, and the fact that this jump in priority level was necessary in the first place was something she didn't care to think about.  
Mary Margaret, as expected, was thrilled at the news, clearly only honing in on the single detail that Emma could potentially be getting a new heart sooner, should the new donor arise. 

Nevermind the fact that they had essentially issued her a death sentence. _Make sure she's comfortable,_ were the unspoken words. _She hasn't got much time left._

_She's dying._

The wind whipped her hair as the hospital's automatic doors slid open, as air burst through the entrance like a reaper, its cold grip making Emma shiver violently. Tendrils of blonde hair kept whipping over her face, and she paused to tug a few pieces out of her mouth. David squeezed her shoulder gently. 

"I'll get the truck and pull it around." 

He jogged off, disappearing into the inky darkness enshrouding the parking lot. 

The nurses had insisted Emma be escorted out in a wheelchair. Mary Margaret stood just behind it, huddled into her tweed coat, chin tucked into her scarf. "I feel really sorry for anyone who has to be out in this tonight," she murmured. "There's supposed to be a pretty bad storm coming in from over the water." 

Emma squeezed the arms of the wheelchair anxiously, fingernails digging into the fake leather. They waited in silence for David to return, listening to the wind whistle around the building. After a few minutes, a pair of headlights came into view in the drop-off area, and David flashed his brights at them. 

Mary Margaret nudged the wheelchair forward a bit, prodding the automatic doors to slide open. She offered an arm and helped Emma stand. David had come running up, clearly ready to help. Once she rose, Emma waved them both away. 

"Guys, I got it. Thank you," she added, "But I got it. Let's just go home." 

+++

"Keys, please." 

Milah was watching him fondly, holding out her hand. Killian dug around in the pocket of his suit for a moment, fumbling a bit, before he looked up at her with wide, adorably panicked eyes. She scoffed playfully and reached into his other pocket, pulling out the keys to their car. 

"Thanks, love." Killian said, with only a hint of a slur to his words. He put his arm around her shoulders as they walked, and she reached up to hold his hand. 

She hummed. "You haven't had that much to drink in a long time." 

"Mmm? Oh, yeah. Was a good party." 

"Seemed like half the room wanted to buy you a drink." 

A slow smile worked its way over his features, stretching languidly like a cat. She was absolutely right. His event had been a huge success, one likely to keep his chest puffed with pride for the rest of the week. Old donors were impressed, promising to keep their monthly donations to the program coming in steadily, and would-be donors were thoroughly wooed. Several had come up to him after he had unveiled some of their finished projects, pressing a drink into one of his hands and a check into the other. 

The old ships stirred up something wonderful in people. Killian's love and passion for the projects was tangible, infectious. He spoke of them the way some men talked about women, their beauty unparalleled, potential untapped, taking people back centuries as he painted mental pictures of the ships in their prime. Even those who knew nothing about antique naval vessels and sailing ships wanted to see them brought back to their former glory. 

"He would have been so proud," Killian whispered, his words almost lost to the sound of their footsteps as they made their way back to their car in the dark. 

Milah had heard him. "Liam would be proud of _you_ , Killian," she clarified. He only grunted in response. 

Thunder rolled in overhead, low and ominous. They felt the first few droplets of rain as they slipped into their car. By the time Milah pulled out of the parking lot, it was pouring. 

+++

 

The three of them settled back into the loft quietly, their only conversation a murmured, half-hearted debate about who would use the bathroom first. Emma won. 

She was tired, could feel it all the way to her bones. When she caught sight of her face in the bathroom mirror, she gaped. There were dark circles cradling her eyes, her skin ghostly white. 

_Mummy,_ she thought in horror, _I look like a mummy._  The medicine cabinet door creaked as she jerked it open, and as its door swung out and away from her, so did the mirror attached to the other side of it. 

An array of orange pill bottles met her eyes, seeming to stare her down, and she looked at them dejectedly, knowing she had more rattling around in her purse, fresh from her recent hospital stay, to add to her collection.  

Pills for the invalid, given out like candy by doctors with pitying eyes and tight-lipped smiles. 

The purple pills would keep it beating as long as it was meant to, the white ones would manage the pain, the round pink ones would keep the purple ones from thinning her blood too much, the long yellow ones would manage the nausea from the round ones, and so it went, in a diverse color wheel of prescriptions refilled at the end of each month.  

This past week had been a scare, to be sure. The worst week of her life, in fact, as far as pain went. She could feel it getting worse, each beat of her crap heart thumping sluggishly and with more strain each day. There wasn't much they could do for her now, apart from sewing someone else's heart into her chest. 

She took down a few of the bottles, uncapping them and setting aside the pills she was supposed to take before going to sleep. She brushed her teeth quickly, skipping the less vital parts of her night routine in favor of the soft bed she knew was waiting for her. 

Mary Margaret shot her a sympathetic smile as she exited the bathroom. Emma didn't have the energy to return it. Mary Margaret had lit a candle, and its lavender scent wafted up and intertwined with the smell of chamomile as David steeped his tea. He worked nights most weeks, doing his time on third shift as a night officer before he could move up to first. It would be a while before he was ready to sleep, despite the late hour.  

"Tea?" David asked, holding up an empty mug.  

Emma shook her head, unsuccessfully trying to stifle a yawn with the back of her hand. "No, thanks, though. I'd be asleep before it could even cool down enough to drink." Mary Margaret stepped up to hug her, and Emma reciprocated, leaning into her for a moment. 

"Thanks for being there," Emma murmured, and Mary Margaret nodded vigorously. When Emma pulled away, she could see tears shining in her friend's brown eyes. "None of that," Emma said, pointing a finger at her in playful warning. "Crying isn't allowed." 

Mary Margaret laughed, despite herself, and nodded. "No crying in baseball."  

Emma smiled back at her, as she always did when they quoted one of their favorite movies. "Goodnight, guys."  

"Night, Emma."  

She made her way up the open staircase slowly, taking advantage of the railing, trying to keep her steps as steady as possible, as they were definitely watching her. As Emma tucked herself into her bed, she could hear the distinct sound of Mary Margaret's quiet crying. 

+++ 

It was still dark when she awoke. Someone was shaking her gently, and it took her eyes a few moments to adjust. 

"Emma. Hey. Wake up, sis."  

David, she realized. She squinted against the onslaught of white light as he turned on his cell phone's flashlight. It was better than cruelly turning on her bedroom light when she wasn't prepared for it, but only marginally. 

Emma groaned and leaned back into her pillow, throwing her arm over her face to shield her eyes. "What," she croaked, "Where the hell's the fire? It's not even morning!" 

David's voice trembled when he spoke next, and it grabbed her attention by the horns, forcing her to pull back her arm and look at him. "No fire, just listen. You're getting a new heart, Em. The hospital called. They have one for you, right now."  

Emma gaped at him, mouth hanging open like a fish. "They... what? Heart?"  

David laughed and put his hands on her shoulders, shaking her lightly again. "A heart! There's a heart waiting for you!" 

Emma felt her mouth go dry, and her stomach did a jerking little flip inside her. "I... oh, shit." 


	2. Fly Me To the Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma Swan is dying. Her last remaining hope is a heart-transplant, and those aren't easy to come by. But, as luck would have it, fate finds her worthy, and on a stormy autumn night, Emma is given a second chance at life.
> 
> Meanwhile, on the other side of the Boston hospital, Killian Jones has been devastated by the sudden loss of his wife.
> 
> Inspired by the 2000 film of the same title with Minnie Driver and David Duchovny.

David, completely unfazed by her belligerent grogginess, chuckled and said, “Come on, we gotta get going.” 

Gingerly, he helped her sit up and get out of bed. “Mary Margaret can help you get dressed if you need it,” he went on. “But they want us down there fairly soon. I'm guessing they need to prep you.” 

Emma moved stiffly, half on autopilot, half in a daze. Her heart was beating wildly in her chest, pounding against her rib cage, and she could hear her own pulse thrumming heavily in her ears. The exertion of standing left her wheezing. 

David disappeared, and his wife took his place. Emma didn't actually need help getting dressed, but Mary Margaret hovered in the doorway anyway, clearly too excited to be doing anything else.

Often, Emma wondered if these people she had chosen as her family actually required sleep, or if they ran on consistent optimism and cheer like Buddy the elf. 

The entire drive back to the hospital, Mary Margaret was chattering, hardly pausing to breathe. Emma barely registered what she was saying. 

Over the past few months, her heart had been slowing, gradually growing more useless by the day. As it beat in her chest then, just as unsteadily as the rattle in David's truck that would sound whenever they hit a dip in the road, a terrifying thought overtook her. 

This was the last night she was going to have this heart. A doctor was going to open her sternum, remove the organ that was barely keeping her alive, and replace it with someone else's.

A stranger's heart. 

The thought made her want to sing out in joy and scream in terror at the same time. 

Admittedly, Emma had thought about the initial phone call portion of receiving a new heart more than the surgery itself. In her daydreams, she thought about what it would be like to receive that fateful call, to be told there was a heart waiting for her. In the end, she hadn't even been the one to answer the phone. She had left her cell on the kitchen counter, and David, her night-owl brother, was fortunately still awake to answer it when it rang. 

Now, she had no idea what to expect. She pictured the hospital lobby frantic and busy, with nurses and physicians' assistants darting to and fro, charts in hand, streams of papers flying behind them in a frantic trail. Basically, she pictured it matching what she felt on the inside: pure pandemonium. 

In reality, it was the same calm lobby they had left only a few hours ago. The same receptionist greeted them with a sunny smile, and the same light by the restrooms was still flickering, about to go out. By now, they knew their way to the cardiac wing—up the elevator to the fourth floor, take a left and follow the long hall. With the amount of times the three of them had collectively been to this wing of the hospital before, they could likely find their way there in their sleep. 

In the elevator, Mary Margaret reached down and took Emma's hand in hers, lacing their fingers together as she gave it a gentle squeeze. David took her other hand. Neither of them said anything. 

They didn't have to. 

+++

The surgery itself only took about four hours.

During that time, David Nolan sat in the waiting room, letting his attention bounce between a television on the wall that seemed to show only the same few news stories and a commercial for Viagra every few minutes, and the array of home and garden magazines sitting on and end table nearest to his chair. 

Mary Margaret had gone home hours ago, despite her insistence to be there when Emma awoke. “You're tired,” David told her, as he leaned in to kiss her forehead sweetly. “It's been a long day and an even longer week.” 

Mary Margaret had wrapped her arms around his middle and sank against him, staring wearily off into the distance. “What if something happens to her, David?” She asked. Her voice was barely higher than a whisper, but David had heard her. He always did. 

He kissed the top of her head. “Nothing will. But if something does, there's no better place for her to be than a hospital.” 

Mary Margaret huffed in begrudging agreement. “Okay,” she whispered after a long moment, “But I don't have to like it.” 

“Neither do I.”

He drove her home. With a warm cup of tea placed by her bedside and a kiss to her lips, he bid her goodnight, only permitted to leave after promising no fewer than three times he would call if something changed with Emma. 

Hours later, Mary Margaret awoke to a Snapchat of the two people she cared about most in the world. David was smiling her favorite smile—big and genuine and proud, with tears shining in his bright eyes—and Emma, with a breathing tube taped to her nose and an IV in her hand, was giving a thumb's up. 

Mary Margaret promptly burst into tears. 

+++

At 8:15AM, the heart in Emma's chest began to beat again. 

She awoke in a sterile room. The first thing she became aware of, apart from the sheer, blinding whiteness of the room itself, was her breathing. Or rather, the fact that she could breathe at all. Her chest, freed from the ever-constant, crushing weight that had pinioned it down for the past year, rose and fell rhythmically. 

She felt light, untethered. Something wonderful bloomed in her chest, spilling its warmth throughout the rest of her body. A slow, languid smile spread over her face until she was grinning up at the ceiling like an idiot. 

"Emma?" 

She knew that voice. It took her a few moments, her brain sluggishly trying to piece things together through the haze of painkilling drugs she was on. 

"Emma? Can you hear me?" 

David. 

David was here. Of course he was. His face came into view, and she smiled as she realized that he was dressed from head to toe in sterilized hospital scrubs, to include a mask and a little blue cap that was perched atop his head. He squinted at her for a second, until his concern gave way to joy. The corners of his eyes crinkled, and although she couldn't see his mouth behind the face mask he wore, she knew he was smiling. 

He said her name again, then something else. 

She couldn't hear him above the pounding of her heart, beating in her ears like a gorilla rattling the bars of an iron cage. 

David's face disappeared from view, and a nurse replaced him. 

It was then Emma realized for the first time that there was a breathing tube in her mouth. 

Panic seized her. She started choking, the muscles of her throat tightening around it until it made her gag. The nurse spoke in soothing tones, trying to calm her. 

_You're okay,_ she heard, over and over until she actually started to believe the words were true. 

The breathing tube would remain where it was until her body stabilized and her lungs remembered how to operate again on their own. It seemed simple enough, but few things in life are as uncomfortable as a breathing tube when one is conscious. Eventually, the nurses replaced it with an oxygen mask, and Emma felt like she could fly. 

She couldn't even begin to count the amount of tubes that were coming out of her body, when she was lucid enough to notice. Over the next few days, they would dwindle, as IVs were swapped with real food when she could stomach it and intravenous painkillers were traded for more pills to restart her now irrelevant collection of prescription bottles in her cupboard at home. 

She felt like Frankenstein's monster, but she was alive—wondrously and gloriously so. While Emma Swan had had anything but a normal or pain-free childhood, she felt like a kid again. She wanted to skip through a field, race through the woods, jump in a puddle and laugh until her sides ached. Having a working heart was, she now knew, not an over-rated thing or a promise made that would only prolong the inevitable for her. It was, plainly and simply, a miracle. 

Of course, much of her unimpeded joy could have been from the morphine. But if it was, she didn't care. 

+++

He awoke sharply, yanked from unconscious with a violent pull that had every last one of his nerves in its fist, crushing them. 

“Jones?” came a voice.

There was so much _light_ in the room.

“Killian,” the voice tried again. “Hey, it's me. It's... it's Robin.”

_Robin,_ he thought. The light bulb went off in his head, and he finally placed where he knew that voice from. A weight shifted on his chest, his breathing calming just a fraction as some of the anxiousness subsided. 

He felt the gentle pressure of a hand on his shoulder and turned his neck just slightly, letting his eyes focus on it as his pupils adjusted to the light. 

Pain, stiff and tense, shot through his neck and the muscles of his shoulders as he moved. He groaned quietly. 

“Shhh—easy, mate,” came Robin's voice again. “Just take it easy.” 

A lost _you're okay_ hung in the air between them, unvoiced. 

Gradually, Robin's hand came into focus. The colors of the room unblurred, weaving together until they formed an image that actually registered in his brain. Slowly, his eyes moved, from the hand on his shoulder and up its arm, until he found his friend's face. 

Robin was watching him intently. His eyes were rimmed red, shoulders sagged forward in a slump. He looked terrible. 

Speech proved difficult. Killian's tongue was suddenly too thick, too dry in his mouth. He cleared his throat, and the muscles of it tensed, feeling raw and ragged. 

“Where...?” he finally managed. The word rasped out, just barely audible. 

Robin's mouth twitched sympathetically. He paused a moment before letting out a shaky, measured breath. “You're in the hospital, mate.” 

Killian stared blankly, Robin's words slowly piecing together in his mind. “Hospital,” he finally said, uncomprehending. “No, I...” he paused and cleared his throat again, wishing desperately for a glass of water to manifest itself. “Fundraiser,” he finished weakly. 

Robin ducked his head for a moment. He took his hand from Killian's shoulder and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “Killian,” he started, and the rest of his sentence hung there, heavily occupying the space between them until Killian thought he was going to go mad. 

“There—was an accident,” Robin went on, fumbling just slightly with his words. He had averted his eyes, suddenly addressing the wall behind Killian's bed. 

“No,” Killian said, interjecting sharply. “That's not poss—no. Milah—she was driving us. She—” he stopped, cut himself off mid-sentence as his hoarse voice faded into a cracked whisper. “Milah,” he said suddenly, jerking himself up into a half-sitting position. “Where is she? Where's Milah?” 

Robin looked up at him sharply, but didn't say anything. Something about his silence was infuriating, lighting a spark that had Killian's temper ignited instantly. 

“Robin,” he ground out, “Where is my wife?” His voice gave out again, cutting off in a painful rasp. _She was driving,_ he wanted to say, give voice to what little memory he had of their night. It was raining. She hadn't been drinking—he had been—so she drove them home from the fundraiser. 

Something in Robin's expression broke, shattered into a million pieces behind his eyes, and Killian watched as a tear slipped down his friend's cheek. He wanted to punch it off his face. “Let me get a nurse,” Robin said, starting to rise from his chair, and he leaned toward the call button near Killian's arm.

Killian gave a frustrated growl as he reached to grab Robin's wrist to stop him. 

Sharp, agonizing pain raced up his arm, and the muscles in his forearm spasmed wildly. He cried out, gritting his teeth against the pain. Robin looked horrified. 

Killian's gaze shot down to his arm. 

His hand was gone. 

He stared at the blunted end of his wrist, panting wildly. His left hand was gone; in its place were gauze and bandages, wound around so many times that the end of his arm looked like a thick knob of white cloth.

Robin fumbled a bit with the call button at Killian's side, and it gave a loud click! when he finally managed to press it down. 

“I don't need a _bloody nurse_ ,” Killian snapped, as he finally tore his gaze away from his arm. “Where the hell is my wife, Locks? Where's Milah?”

Robin offered a weak, “Take it easy, mate,” and simply stood there, frozen, hovering next to his friend's bedside. 

“Don't tell me to take it easy,” Killian spat, his tone murderous. He started to swing his legs out to the side of the bed, trying in vain to sit up the rest of the way. His ribs screamed in protest, driving the breath from him, and he gasped against the pain. 

“ _Killian_ ,” Robin said, all the command of his collective military days resurfacing to weave through his tone, as he put both hands on his friend's shoulders and pushed him back down onto his bed. “She's gone.” 

Killian jerked his head to look at him. “What did you just say?” 

Tears sprang back into Robin's eyes. “Milah's gone,” he repeated. 

“Like hell she is,” Killian snarled, starting to rise again. Robin held him down, keeping a firm grip on his shoulders, and Killian felt his outrage growing to a crescendo. “Get off me, Locksley,” he bit out. His voice was hoarse with disuse, gravel against his throat. 

Killian jerked his hand forward, and one of his IVs slipped out, dangling uselessly at his side. 

This seemed to be the last straw for Robin Locksley. 

“She's dead, mate,” he said finally. Killian sat back, breathing heavily. “Milah is dead.” 

Killian cursed at him viciously. Robin didn't so much as blink in response. The moment Killian said it, he regretted it, and his eyes flit up to the ceiling, its lights blurring together again in his vision as a sheen of tears arose. 

Robin finally relaxed his grip on Killian's shoulders. “I am so sorry,” he whispered. “I didn't want to be the one to tell y--” 

“She was just driving us home,” Killian whispered, his voice breaking around the last few words. Tears slipped out from his eyes, dampening the hair just above his ears as he continued to stare at the ceiling lights. 

“That was over six hours ago,” Robin said quietly. 

Killian looked at him, stunned. 

Robin's features, suddenly, became horribly distorted by his tears. A lump arose and lodged itself painfully in his already ragged throat, cutting off his words at the source.

As if he had words to follow news that his wife had been dead for several hours. 

Pain bloomed in his chest, and Killian tossed his head back against the head of his bed, gasping against it. 

It wasn't true. 

It _couldn't_ be true. 

He gasped again, suddenly not able to get enough air into his lungs. 

The door to his room swung open and a nurse entered, 

Robin stepped back, inching toward the window, likely wishing for all the world he could just leap out of it. The nurse addressed him, and she and Robin spoke for a few seconds, but their words were lost on Killian. He couldn't understand them above the roaring in his ears. 

Abruptly, the nurse was standing next to him, hovering at his shoulder. She offered him a warm, albeit brief smile and spoke something to him in a soothing tone. Out of his line of sight, she fiddled with his IV for a moment, before she reappeared, smiling again, and placed a hand on his bicep reassuringly. 

Whatever she did had a quick effect. Within a minute, his thrashing heart slowed to a rhythmic lull. Warmth overtook him like a tide, and the lids of his eyes were suddenly too heavy to hold open any longer. The sedation carried him off like a gentle wave, bringing him out to sea, and he let himself be drowned in it. 

+++

The room was light when he awoke. 

It was quiet, almost eerily so, and he had the sense he wasn't supposed to be awake.   
Robin and the nurse were gone, had been for some time. It was likely Killian wasn't expected to be conscious again for hours, after what his nurse had filtered into his IV. 

Yet, he was. 

Daylight had begun to filter in through his room's only window. It danced across the end of his bed, splashing its golden light across his blanketed legs between stripes of shadow cast by the long, vertical blinds. They swayed just slightly as the air conditioning kicked on from a near by vent. 

A few murmurs of distant conversation drifted his way from the hall outside the room's door, but apart from that, the hospital was serenely silent. 

A clock was ticking.

Lazily, his eyes tried to find it. It was a simple, white-faced clock on the wall opposite his bed. The numbers were over-sized and easy for patients of all ages to read. 

8:15, it read. Morning, he assumed, by the light filtering into the room. 

He stared at it, watching the sweep hand tick away seconds as it made its way across the clock's face. 

An odd thrumming overtook his ears. It was unsteady at first, somewhat erratic. The noise was familiar, but it took him a moment to place the usually unmistakable sound: a beating heart. 

It was not his own heart beat; the pulsing in his ears didn't quite match the rhythm in his own chest, which had slowed considerably after he'd been sedated. No, this was a different beating altogether. 

He wouldn't give it much thought, later. He didn't know enough about anatomy to question whether someone's pulse could sound differently in their ears than the rate at which their actual heart was pumping. But as 8:15 gave way to the next minute, and the one after that, the sound of the beating heart in his ears began to even out, until it became a steady, normal rhythm to match his own. 

Something about it calmed Killian, reassured him in some way. His lids grew heavy again, and the face of the clock blurred, its numbers twisting together in his vision as he began to drift away into a deep, tranquil sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who left kudos and/or comments on the previous chapter! The positive feedback is why there is now a second chapter, because I'm an insecure little flower to will wilt without lovely comments like the ones you fine people left me. Thanks also for your patience in waiting for chapter two. It was short and not very sweet. I've affectionately been referring to it as an "angst carnival", which I think is pretty accurate. But, it will all be better by the end. All my gratitude goeth to Laura (welllpthisishappening on tumblr) for basically holding my hand through this whole chapter and lending a second eye to this. I hope you enjoyed it! Or maybe you hated it, in a sort of good way. Come tell me!


	3. Beyond The Sea

Over the course of the next few days, Emma continually drifted in and out of consciousness. 

She often dreamed of David and Mary Margaret; their constant presence at her bedside intermingled with the wildness of her dreams. 

But mostly, she dreamt of the sea.

Emma had never been a particularly ardent fan of the ocean. Few of her foster parents had ever held any interest in taking her to play in it, and those who did—mainly David's mother, Ruth—didn't have the time or resources to do so. Emma had seen the ocean, of course. It was hard to avoid it in a town perched so close to the sea. But, she had never stopped to just look at it, to watch its natural grace and the majestic power it swelled with.

The gentle ebb and flow of it lulled her as she slept. Sweetly, it would nudge her back into consciousness as doctors consulted her charts and nurses switched out her tubing. And when it came time for her to rest, the waves were there to pull her gently back under.

She would miss that most about her time in the hospital—her odd, but tender dreams of the sea. But as far as contenders for fondest hospital memories went, it wasn't much of a contest. Her stay, ultimately, was not great. As it turned out, getting a heart transplant was no stroll in the park. 

As the days went, the number of tubes, wires, and IVs attached to her dwindled. Eventually, after up to two weeks, she would be able to go home—back to the Nolans' home, anyway. 

For their part, her two best friends were amazing. Both David and Mary Margaret came every day. David always had a new night shift story to regale her with, which she appreciated up until the funny parts that made her laugh, wherein she would be left painfully gasping, muscles straining against the deep incision in her chest where her sternum had been pulled open. David quickly learned the funny stories should be hoarded for later. From then on, his work stories were simply gross or weird. 

Mary Margaret came every afternoon, after school let out, each time with a new arrangement of flowers. Soon, the entire windowsill was covered, hidden from view by a barrage of colors. The sun shone in above the tops of the flowers each morning, and their thin petals seemed to glow effervescently in its light. 

All in all, it wasn't a horrendous stay. Occasionally, Emma's new heart ached at the thought of the patients who had no one to visit them. Each time the thought crossed her mind, her heartache was replaced almost instantly by a swelling of pride and gratefulness for David and his wife, without whom Emma would be one of those lonely patients. 

Those without family or friends to visit them weren't left completely alone, however. Renowned for its doctors with cardiac prowess, the hospital was also well-known for the warmth of its staff. Each nurse who came in to treat Emma was cordial and gentle, and those whose smiles were less genuine made up for it in their attentive care. 

Emma's favorite nurse was a woman named Belle, who had a habit of keeping Emma company in the wee hours of the night. She was a sweet young woman who usually wore her long brown hair tucked back into delicate braids, and she had a warm smile that touched her blue eyes every time. 

While she offered very little information about her own life outside hospital hours, Belle seemed genuinely interested in Emma, always ready with a thoughtful question. Emma, who usually bristled when strangers tried to get too personal with her, found it oddly endearing. 

“Do you have a favorite book, Emma?” Belle had asked, within the first few nights of attending to her. 

This had taken Emma by surprise. “I'm not much of a reader,” she admitted. Her voice was just a notch above a whisper, but Belle heard her all the same. Talking still took more effort than usual these days, as her chest was healing. Emma felt forcibly soft-spoken; it was incredibly frustrating. But, her nurses—Belle in particular—were always patient with her. 

Part of her wondered if Belle intentionally chatted with her as often as she did just to get Emma to talk more, as a form of early physical therapy. Most of the nurses made small talk with her. But if they were trying to get her to practice speaking, they did a poor job of initiating. Most of their questions were easily answered with a head shake for “yes” or “no”. 

Belle, however, seemed to have a knack for getting Emma to talk to her. 

“Not even one from when you were a child?” Belle prompted. 

Emma thought for a moment. “Actually,” she said, “I guess I always did like The Ugly Duckling.” 

“I love that book,” Belle said, a bit too loudly. She blushed as Emma stared at her. “Sorry. I get a bit carried away sometimes when it comes to books. I've thought about starting a book club, here at the hospital. I think some of the patients would really like that—especially the long-term ones.” 

“That would be great,” Emma said, “It sounds a lot better than daytime TV, anyway.” 

“Wait, you're not hooked on The Young and the Restless like everyone else in this hospital?” Belle asked, feigning shock.

Emma grunted softly, willing herself not to laugh and further agitate her stitches.

“Sorry,” Belle said with an empathetic wince. 

“Don't be,” Emma said. “Anyway. Ugly Duckling, hospital book club. Go.” 

This got Belle swept up in an animated conversation about fairy tales, and how vital they were to a child's budding imagination.

And that was how Emma came to know that her favorite nurse didn't want to be a nurse at all, but a librarian. 

Belle started bringing her books to read. Light reads, mostly, but they were a welcomed reprieve from the great and terrible boredom that was daytime television in a hospital. Most of them were classics. Alice's Adventures In Wonderland. A set of both Grimm's fairy tales and Hans Christian Andersen's. The Complete Tales of Winnie the Pooh. Emma had raised her eyebrows at that one and gave her nurse a skeptical look. Belle simply smiled and patted the book's cover.

“Don't knock it till you try it, Emma,” she said. 

It was difficult to manage reading, at first. Emma's mind struggled to grasp the context of sentence structures through the fog of her painkillers. But with each passing day, her body grew stronger, responding well to the new heart beating inside her, and her mind sharpened. 

 

+++

 

The second time he awoke went similarly to the first. Only this time, Robin and the nurse were gone, replaced instead by a doctor whose placating tones only seemed to agitate Killian all the more.

He demanded the same things and got the same answers: his wife was still dead. No, he couldn't see her. It didn't matter that he couldn't remember what had happened to them on their drive home; Milah Jones was still dead. 

And his hand was gone. It took him a while to actually comprehend this—likely almost as long as it took him to comprehend that his wife was dead. 

He would reach to adjust one of his pillows, his blanket, scratch his nose—any mundane thing he could usually do without a second thought—only to realize, again, that his hand wasn't there.

Killian Jones had never believed in luck—not as a tangible force in the universe, randomly rewarding people whether they deserved it or not. But, whatever form of luck did exist in the world, he knew his was very clearly garbage.

Because, naturally, it was his dominant hand that had been lost in the accident. 

He thought of Milah as often as he reached to use it—two ghosts intertwined, constant reminders of what had been stolen from him. The pain was similar, as it turned out, between lost limb and lost love; yet, he would have traded both arms to have her back.

Instinctively, he wanted to see her. Her beautiful face haunted him. The last clear frame of memory he had was of her smile—her perfect, bliss-soaked smile that had made her eyes shine so brightly that night. He couldn't tell if it was real, if they had been laughing together in their last moments before the other driver had hit them, or if he had transposed her smile into the hazy, dark, slightly drunken memories he had of their last moments together. 

And oh, how he wished he had been sober. Had he known that was to be their last night together, the last time he'd ever lay eyes on her, he wouldn't have had a single drop of wine. He would have kept his arms around her, and they would have never left the dance floor. 

Everything he knew had been snatched from him, taken away as quickly as a sigh. In an instant, his wife was gone. Cruelly, when he awoke each morning in the hospital, reality took its time setting in. He was under a constant shroud of morphine, and he napped frequently. Each time he drifted off, even for a fifteen minute stretch of sleep, he awoke confused, reaching for his wife on the other side of a bed he wasn't in. 

The nurses were all sympathetic. But Killian Jones was quickly becoming the patient the entire staff wanted to draw straws for--or avoid altogether. And he didn't give half a damn. 

After a week in the hospital, he was allowed to go home. 

He was discharged with a goodie bag, filled with samples of pain killers and prescriptions to fulfill if he didn't react adversely to the samples, a sling if his arm should tire, fresh gauze and bandages, pamphlets on physical therapy locations. It was a dizzying amount of information to be contained all in one bag, delivered to him by a nurse who was entirely too chipper for the situation. 

Will Scarlet was waiting for him in the front lobby. 

Killian stepped off the elevator, hesitating for a few moments as the doors closed behind him. He was wearing a Royal Navy hoodie and a pair of sweats Robin had grabbed for him from his house. His hand was stuffed into one of its pockets, and his thumb stroked the fleece lining absentmindedly. The lobby wasn't quiet; chopped bits of different conversations came to him in fragments across the room, and in a desperate attempt to not return to his old life alone, he tried to eavesdrop on all of them simultaneously.  

Once he crossed the floor of the lobby, that was it. Everything that had been there for him a week ago was still there, waiting. 

Except Milah. 

He dreaded going back to his empty apartment, to a life he had once shared, alone.The normalcy of it all, everything he knew was waiting at home for him--all her things in their shared closet, notes in her handwriting exactly where she had left them on their dining room table, the pictures of the two of them hung on walls and propped up on bookshelves--terrified him.  

Will looked up at him then, and a vaguely bored expression was chased off his face by recognition. Recognition gave way to that same sympathetic look his nurses had been giving him all week, a look Killian was beginning to loathe to his core. 

“Oi,” Will called, “Jones!” 

Reflexively, Killian gave a small smile. Will Scarlet was one of the most infuriating people Killian had ever met, but few people managed to make him laugh as much as Scarlet did. Will marched toward him, arms held open just slightly, as if he were barreling in for a hug. At the last second, he seemed to change his mind, and opted for a firm pat on Killian's shoulder--the one that wasn't in a sling--instead.  

And perhaps it was the residual effect of the last dose of pain medication he had been given, or the fact that he had been sleeping fitfully for a week, or the fact that he had yet to fully process his wife's death... but something about the awkward sincerity of his friend's gesture made tears prick in Killian's eyes. He blinked them back and looked up at the ceiling, sucking in a deep breath through his nose.

Will offered up a half smile. "I'd ask how you are," he started, "But I think I know. You look like shit." 

Killian barked out a laugh. "I feel like shit." He knew he had to look awful. If he looked even a fraction of how he felt, then he knew he looked like a complete mess of a human being. 

Will winced, as if he had been hoping for a different answer. "What the hell are you doing, anyway? Shouldn't you be in a wheelchair or something?" 

"My legs are fine," Killian said brusquely. He had been offered a wheelchair, but in the moment, he'd found it abhorrent. He had been confined to a hospital bed, tied to IVs, for seven days. Mercifully, his legs had nothing wrong with them. His nurse had strongly recommended the wheelchair, but in that moment, he chose the option he thought would get him out of the hospital the quickest. By the time he'd reached the elevator, he was dizzy and the room was spinning, and he vaguely regretted not taking his nurse up on her suggestion.

Now, Will hovered next to him, as if he thought Killian were going to topple over at any second. Killian would be damned if he took his friend's arm for balance, like some school girl linking arms with her friend and skipping off to Girl Scout camp. Much had been taken from him in the past few days, but he clung to his dignity like a life preserver after a shipwreck.  

"Locks told me the food here is rubbish," Will said. "So I brought you a burger from a little place by my hotel." 

If there was one thing Will was good at, it was making things seem normal, even when they were very clearly not. Killian had never appreciated it more. 

"He was right," Killian said. "But I'm not hungry. This stuff they've got me on..." He trailed off, vaguely gesturing with his hand to suggest that he was a bit foggy. 

"Right," Will said, shrugging. "Well, more for me. You gonna be all right with that thing on? With the seat belt, I mean." 

Killian glanced down at the sling that cradled his injured arm. "It comes off." 

Will rolled his eyes. "Obviously. I didn't think they'd sewn it to your bloody skin, you git. Question is should it come off? What did your doctor say?"

It was the closest Will had come so far to asking Killian about his injuries. Robin had undoubtedly told him Killian had lost his hand, and Killian was relieved Will hadn't asked him about it. It ranked second on his list of things he absolutely did not want to talk about. 

"It's fine," Killian said vaguely. "Shoulder was dislocated and there's a hairline fracture on the collar bone. It's manageable. I just can't drive myself. But that should have been fairly obvious." Snark had seeped its way into Killian's tone, which Will normally would have jumped to reciprocate. Instead, he just shot Killian a sideways glance and shrugged again.

"Suit yourself, mate." 

The automatic doors slid open for them as they approached, and Killian squinted hard against the barrage of sunlight. Will's rental car was parked right near the front entrance, in the patient pickup zone. Killian was grateful for that; he was trying not to show it, but he desperately needed to sit down, before the dizziness overtook him and he crumpled to his knees. 

There was indeed a burger waiting on the passenger seat of the car. While the thought behind it was appreciated, the smell made him feel faintly ill. 

A heavy silence draped them. It was clear Will had no idea what to say--just as clear as it was that Killian had no interest in talking. What could either of them say, really? After a few minutes, once Will had navigated his way around lackadaisical pedestrians and out of the crowded parking lot (with minimal cursing, to his credit), and merged onto the highway, Killian spoke up. 

"Thanks for flying in," he said quietly. "And for picking me up." 

"Don't be stupid," Will said. "Of course I flew in. Would'a been here sooner, if I could've. Been a bit tied up with work as of late. But you don't want to hear about all that." 

Killian huffed out a humorless laugh. "Actually, I'd love to hear about it." Truth be told, he'd listen to Will talk to him about anything. Anything that wasn't Killian's time in the hospital, his injuries, his future plans, or his dead wife. 

Will seemed to understand. He blathered on about his job back in London and how relieved he was to have been able to get away from it for a little while. He told Killian about his inept secretary, whom he was all but certain was coming into work "baked as a scone", as Will put it. Killian laughed harder than he had in what felt like a year. He had never been more grateful to have Will Scarlet for a friend. 

They almost hadn't been friends at all, in the beginning. 

Robin "Locks" Locksley had been there for Killian since their shared military days. Killian had enlisted in the Royal Navy as soon as he was of age, as had Robin, but the two hadn't met until their last remaining year and a half in the service. It hadn't mattered. They'd bonded easily over the terrible chow hall food and their incompetent captains. 

Will Scarlet had come with the territory. Apparently an old mate of Robin's from their schooldays, the two were a packaged deal, and Will and Killian eventually became friends, as well.

But there had been the matter of their first meeting. Both had been drinking. Profusely. Killian, as he was making his way to the men's room, had accidentally stepped on Will's foot. Will let out a stream of curses that would have made any other sailor blush, and Killian had shoved him backward as Will had gotten into his face close enough to spit on him as he shouted obscenities. Will reciprocated with a punch. Killian returned the favor; the two had ended up on the floor, only to be dragged apart by some of their fellow officers. 

The next day, both were obstinately nursing hangovers and bruised cheeks in their separate barracks when Robin had dragged them into one of the common rooms to make amends. They did so begrudgingly. A week later, the three met at one of the local pubs for a pint. Will remained sober and was on his best behavior—which essentially meant he acted like a sarcastic, cheeky bastard—and Killian couldn't help but see the charm in him. 

The three had remained close friends ever since. 

Close enough friends that Robin had been his emergency contact, second to his wife, and Will had flown in as soon as he could cram a flight into what sounded like an insane work schedule.

After a few minutes, Killian was only half-listening. Understandably, he was finding it difficult to focus. 

He stared blankly at the center of the glove compartment in front of him, at an almost imperceptible crack in the plastic. He let his eyes relax, and the crack blurred, stretching in his vision. 

"We're here, mate." 

Killian kept staring blankly. 

“Jones.” 

He didn't need to look up to know they were idling in the driveway of his and Milah's townhouse. Their neighbor's flat was a rather striking shade of pale blue; he could see it in his peripheral vision as he stared at the dashboard. 

Will was quiet for a solid minute. Together, they just sat there, letting the car idle, not talking. 

Killian could feel a headache blooming in his temple, and he grit his teeth against it.  
Will pulled in a deep breath, preparing to speak. 

“Do you want me to go in with--” 

“No,” Killian cut him off. His voice was a little too sharp, and he shot a quick, apologetic look up at his friend. “Just... I want to go in alone.” 

This was a lie. Absolutely no part of him wanted to walk up the four steps that led to his front door and through his doorway alone. But the person he wanted to walk into that house with was dead. And he'd be damned if Will Scarlet had to help him through the mental breakdown that was patiently waiting for him on the other side of that door. 

If Will sensed the lie, he didn't show it. “All right, mate. Do you need help?” 

Killian shook his head, a bit too jerkily. His headache blossomed. 

“Thanks for the ride, Scarlet.” He flexed his arm, instinctively about to reach out to open the door with his right hand. His forearm tugged against its sling instead, and he pulled his lower lip in with his teeth to curb a hiss of pain. 

He reached over awkwardly with his left hand and grasped the handle, giving it a shove just strong enough to open it, before he nudged the door open the rest of the way with his leg. It was an uncoordinated motion, and he could feel Will watching him the entire time. He could also feel the burn of a blush tinging his ears pink.

Whatever Will said next was cut short as Killian closed the door. Guilt pricked his gut, but he didn't look back. 

He leaned against the side of the car for just a second, gathering his bearings. The trees around him spun, and he released a slow, controlled breath until they straightened. 

Will's offer for help was looking as tempting as the wheelchair back at the hospital. But he'd be damned if he forfeited the last remaining shred of pride he had left. 

Somehow, he made it the few strides it took to reach his front steps without toppling over. Fortunately, said steps had a railing. In all the time he'd lived there, he had never so much as touched the railing. Now, he was terribly grateful for it. 

Killian hadn't had many possessions to take home with him, when it came time for his release. The few items he did have fit well in the pockets of the sweatpants Robin had brought him, to include his keys. His hand shook as he inserted it into the lock. 

The door gave a soft, familiar creak as he pushed it open. 

He hadn't known what to expect. When he tried to remember the state of their home when they had left that night, he couldn't. He'd had a few other things to take care of before the start of the fundraiser; he had taken a cab to the marina, so he and his wife would be able to drive home together in the same car. Milah had been the last to leave the house.

She was usually a fairly tidy person, never leaving a mess that couldn't be picked back up in under five minutes. Her last day had been no exception. And yet, he could see traces of her everywhere.

A pile of her work papers, stacked neatly on their dining room table. A pair of bright green dish-washing gloves, slung over the sink divider. Sticky notes in her handwriting. A grocery list pinned beneath a magnet on the face of the fridge. Her favorite boots by the door. 

The house was too quiet. 

Whenever Milah was home, there was music. She had always found a quiet room to be an eerie thing, and usually filled the silence, herself. She sang when she washed pans, hummed as she got ready for the day. If she wasn't the one making the music, she had a Pandora playlist on. At the very least, their fireplace was lit in the living room, crackling and popping as she read in the chaise beside it. 

He entered the home they had shared and found it as silent as the dead. 

As he made his way down the first hall way, he felt like a ghost, like he wasn't really there at all. He felt detached, as if he were watching himself from behind a pane of glass. What little energy he had left was fading, fast. As he walked, he propped his good shoulder up against the wall, using it for support. 

He knew he wasn't going to find her. And yet, he couldn't stop himself from looking anyway, from checking every room in the house, as if he would just happen upon her calmly sitting and sketching, or having a bath in their tub. He imagined her smile, the crows feet hugging her blue eyes. How silly she'd think he was, for thinking she had been anywhere else but right there in their home, waiting for him. 

Their bathroom was empty and cold. The door of their spare bedroom was still closed, untouched. In their bedroom, the bed was still made. 

He sat on the edge of it, exhausted. 

The mattress squeaked once. Cold silence draped the room. 

Slowly, realizations hit him in heavy waves, each one knocking him harder than the last, until it all finally sank in. 

He would never see her again. Never hear her voice, or look into those perfect eyes. Never again would he hold her, kiss her, feel the warmth of her. 

Not for the first time in his life, Killian Jones felt utterly, hopelessly alone. 

A picture on the nightstand caught his eye. It was a framed photograph of the two of them, his arm around her waist as they both smiled sunnily for the camera. They'd had much to celebrate that day; Killian had just secured an office space for the business he and his brother had founded, after months of searching. When Liam had died, Killian had all but given up hope of seeing their dream to fruition. Milah was the reason he hadn't given up on it—or himself. 

He stared at himself in the picture, grinning like a fool. His eyes flit to Milah, and his heart seized. God, she was beautiful. With a shaking hand, he leaned forward, reaching out to grab the frame. He nearly dropped it. 

He pulled it into his lap and stared down at it—at her. 

He lost himself, just staring at her face, until her features blurred in his vision behind a sheen of tears. 

He closed his eyes and pulled in a long, steadying breath through his nose. 

The last thread holding his sanity together snapped. He stood quickly, leaping up off the bed as if it had bitten him. With a rough jerk, he threw the picture frame across the room. It hit the wall, hard, shattering on contact. Rage had boiled up inside him, and he let it all out in one long, hoarse scream. 

He screamed until his lungs burned.

+++

 

"Okay, tell us if this is too much," Mary Margaret said. Emma tutted. Mary Margaret Nolan had officially reached full-on Mother Hen Mode. Emma would have found it endearing if her friend hadn't been asking her if she was all right every time she so much as inhaled, all the way from the hospital parking lot to the front door of their apartment building. "You just say the word and we can stop to rest. It's just a step down, and then David can carry you the rest of the way." 

Emma desperately wanted to protest that, but she knew there was no way she was going to make it up the steps that led to the building's front door by herself, let alone the staircase that went up to the loft's door. She was weak, heavily drugged, and insurmountably tired. 

Having her heart replaced was, as it turned out, a great test in humility for Emma Swan. 

The Nolans had gotten a great deal on their spacious loft apartment, primarily because it wasn't completely up to code. For instances such as this, there was typically wheelchair access in most modern apartment buildings. But when residents took advantage of lower rates, they agreed to look the other way on a few things here and there. Such was the case then, as Emma mentally prepared herself to be carried to her bed like a small child. 

David was standing at the ready next to his wife. Emma would have laughed at how seriously they were both taking this—the simple task of transporting her from truck to loft—but she knew that wouldn't be well received. They were sweet, her friends. She didn't deserve them. 

Emma could likely count on one hand the number of times she had been carried. Even when she was a baby, her foster homes had bordered more on neglectful than nurturing. Being carried by her brother, as she stepped down into his arms and he held her carefully as he advanced up the steps to their home, was surreal. Something about it made her feel safe and exceptionally loved. 

Mary Margaret hovered behind, terrified her husband was going to drop her. He didn't. 

David paused outside the loft's door, waiting as Mary Margaret slid in front of them to unlock it with her key. The old wooden door groaned as she shouldered it open.

It was impossible not to notice the decorations, but for a moment, Emma couldn't concentrate enough to see them. When she did, her jaw fell open in shock. 

There were so many things crowding the open layout of the apartment that it was hard to take everything in at first. If Emma thought there had been a lot of flowers before, in her hospital room, it was nothing compared to now. There wasn't a flat surface in the loft that didn't have at least two bouquets of flowers on it, to include the floor. Colorful balloons took up nearly every corner; a few of them had escaped and were bumping gently against the ceiling as the air from the doorway nudged them . An Edible Arrangement in the shape of a swan sat on the table, next to a stack of unopened envelopes—“get well” cards from Mary Margaret's class, she would come to learn. 

Last, but certainly not least, a huge banner took up all but a few inches of space above the kitchen sink. It read “WELCOME HOME, EMMA!” in huge red letters. There were pictures of her face—seemingly every picture of her in existence—filling up the rest of the banner. 

David set her down carefully as she was still looking around, keeping his arm around her shoulders to steady her. Emma was flabbergasted. When she glanced over at Mary Margaret, she saw her friend was crying, even as a smile spread over her face. 

“Welcome home, Emma,” Mary Margaret said, echoing the sentiment of the banner. “We're so glad you're all right.” 

Tears pricked Emma's eyes. She was floored by their thoughtfulness and love, their unyielding devotion throughout this entire process. “Guys...” she started, before the lump in her throat clogged the rest of her words. She shook her head and just beamed at them. David hugged her a little closer in response. 

“Elsa and her sister wanted to be here, too,” he started, “But we told them they should hang back for a while. Just until you're a little more rested.” 

Elsa was the principal of Mary Margaret's small school; Emma had met her through one of Mary Margaret's famed weekend lunch parties. Elsa's sister, Ana, had come with the territory. They were each lovely women in their own ways, and it would have been perfectly fine if they had come to welcome Emma home. But she saw the merit in keeping the loft quiet and peaceful, especially as the thought of a nap was seeming more wonderful by the second. 

She wanted to look over each individual bouquet (she would later learn that her favorite nurse, Belle, had a florist for a father, and all of them had come from his shop), and read through each hand-made card waiting for her on the table. 

But, her own bed beckoned. It was leagues more comfortable than any at the hospital, and there had been times during her post-operation stay where she had caught herself daydreaming of her own mattress and blankets. Now that she was home, nothing in the world seemed better. 

Mary Margaret, possessing near telepathic powers of inhuman empathy, seemed to read her mind. She reached out and placed her hand on Emma's shoulder, giving it an almost imperceptible squeeze. “We love you so much, Emma,” she said quietly, her voice just a notch above a whisper. She was still crying. “You can look at everything later. Do you want to take a nap?” 

Emma nodded gratefully. She had never really known what it was like to have parents, or even a family; but she imagined it felt a lot like this. 

David carried her up the stairs to her bed—her sweet, heavenly bed. He tucked her in carefully. While she could have been imagining it, she would swear later he kissed her forehead. But in that moment, she had her eyes closed, and was seconds away from sleep. Outside her window, a bird was chirping, and the wind whistled around the loft. The old staircase groaned as David made his way back downstairs. And Emma slept sweetly, more peacefully than she had in years. 

She dreamt of a calm sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a minute, hasn't it, gang? I can't thank you enough for your patience. Since the last chapter was posted eons ago, some crazy life stuff has happened. I birthed a 10.4 -pound baby, for one, which was wild. Husband and I sold our house and are moving three hours away to fix up an old inn and run it (whaaaat?). It's been hectic on my side of the screen, to be sure! All that to say, I appreciate the patience and any interest that still remains on your end in this tale. 
> 
> If you liked this or had any thoughts, please please say "hi" in the comment section! I've read and re-read every last comment and tumblr tag. They keep me going when the seas get a little choppy. You can find me on tumblr @stubble-sandwich, as well. Thanks, guys!

**Author's Note:**

> HEY, THANKS FOR READING THIS! Please come talk to me in the comments section, even if it's only a few words. I would really love to hear from you! Comments/feedback seriously make my entire week. Thanks again!
> 
> Also, all these chapters are going to be specifically named after songs from some of the classic voices from the golden age of music. If you're on Spotify, look me up--VLKeyser! There's a playlist of songs on there I've hand-picked for this fic, aptly titled "Return To Me." May it hurt your heart as much as it hurts mine.


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